Midnight
by littlemisscass
Summary: Éponine, usually stuck at home because of her parents, sneaks out of the house one night to go to a party she heard about from some college kids at the bar where she works. Éponine vows that no matter how much fun she's having, she'll return home at the stroke of midnight. How much could happen in just a few hours? She doubts she'll see any of the people from there again...


**Midnight - Part 1 of 2**

* * *

Only at the party for fifteen minutes, Éponine is already bored. Although her family and their friends enjoy drinking, gambling and stealing, and although she's good at all three, in her heart, Éponine is a romantic.

She doesn't believe that a prince might come along, sweep her off her feet and take her away from _Patron Minette_, as everyone calls her parents' house. What they do is wrong-prostitution, robbing the rich, begging philanthropists, selling their children-but it's what they do to survive and Éponine can't wholly begrudge them that.

But she does want out. Someday, when she has earnt enough money to rent her own place, she will be free. There are no princes, but she can do it on her own.

Éponine sits in the corner of the 'café', which was really just a popular bar, and pulls a tiny copy of Plato's _Gorgias_ out of her bag. She'll wait until it's more crowded and then she'll start dancing. She enjoys being the centre of attention, but she doesn't like to be in everyone's faces. She doesn't want to be noticed by someone. She doesn't want to be recognised as the girl from the _Patron Minette_.

"Callicles' argument, while flawed, does have some merits," a voice sounds from beside her. Éponine jumps, startled.

"Excuse me?"

A twenty-something blond man sits beside her. He is beautiful, but only in his imperfection; his features are proportionate and symmetrical, though his nose is slightly too straight, one tooth adorably chipped. A wide grin is on his lips and his hair is almost long enough to fall into his blue eyes.

"In my opinion, popular oratory isn't as terrible as Socrates makes it out to be. While his argument on pleasure is slightly less clear, it is a more creditable cause to discuss. Rhetoric and oratory both have their merits," he argues.

Éponine makes a disgruntled noise. She doesn't like handsome men. Once upon a time, she thought 'Parnasse was handsome... and look how that turned out. _Not well._

"What's your name?"

She doesn't respond.

"I'll call you Socrates, then. I'm Callicles, nice to meet you," he says with a grin, flashing his teeth. "Will you dance with me?"

Éponine, already smiling in response to his naming, nods and stands up, bag in one hand. Her book lies forgotten on the booth behind her.

They dance for what seems like hours, sweaty, bodies close, sometimes touching, sometimes not. There is an electric spark of energy between them, a crackling, a jolt of adrenaline. Éponine excuses herself to get a drink, but Callicles follows. When she orders a double shot of vodka, he smirks, asks for the same, and pays for both.

She usually doesn't let people pay for her, she doesn't like to be indebted. But this time it's nice, it's thoughful, and she doesn't mind as much.

They down the shots and move back towards the booth where Éponine had originally sat, and it's surprisingly empty. As they cross the room, she checks her phone for the time, gasping to see that it's already past 12. She has to leave, she has to get home... what if they notice she's gone? The only other time it happened... Éponine shudders.

"I have to go!" She yells in his ear, one hand on his shoulder.

Callicles nods, a frown on his face, "You sure?"

"Yeah!"

Instead of saying goodbye, he pulls her to him. In the middle of the café, the bar, in the middle of a group of strangers, he pulls her to him and kisses her. It lasts for a few seconds, and it's barely more than a press of his lips on hers, but they both stand there, looking at each other, catching their breaths for several moments.

Éponine kisses him again, a light brush of her lips against his, before rushing into the crowd, into the night, out of the party, and back home.

She leaves behind a mystified man, sinking into the booth where he met her, exclaiming at the sharp object poking him in the back. He grins when he sees it, the book that made him come over to see the lonely girl in the corner.

He examines it, flipping through the pages, empty of annotations. There's no name on the inside, no evidence that it belonged to anyone in particular. But he keeps it, he tucks it into his back pocket. He nods to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who convinced him to come to the party, which wasn't his style to begin with, and indicates that he's leaving.

When he gets home, he looks at the book again. And for the next few days, the next few weeks, all he can think about is the mystery girl from the party.

And so he begins to investigate.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


End file.
